


Lights

by verysorrytobother



Series: Talk to Me AU [4]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Emotional Constipation, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Hanukkah, Holidays, Jewish Holidays, Just a ficlet, Pigs, Stangst, Talk to Me AU, sorry I'm bad at tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:47:59
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,958
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28209315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/verysorrytobother/pseuds/verysorrytobother
Summary: Fiddleford is in Tennessee for winter break, leaving Stan and Ford alone with their unresolved emotional issues.
Relationships: Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Ford Pines & Stan Pines, Fiddleford H. McGucket & Stan Pines, Ford Pines & Stan Pines
Series: Talk to Me AU [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2056503
Comments: 18
Kudos: 82





	Lights

Ford sat at the kitchen table, resting his head in his arms as he watched the candle flicker. Logically, he knew that fire was simply the byproduct of a combustion reaction; a combination of carbon dioxide, water vapor, nitrogen, and oxygen. Like everything else in the world, it could be broken down into its most basic components in order to be analyzed—to be understood. 

But it managed to mesmerize him all the same. 

Of course, that could be due to the fact that it was scented. Ford had no idea where Fiddleford even  _ found _ gingerbread-and-mistletoe-scented candles. Perhaps whatever chemicals enhanced the smell also contributed to the hallucinogenic properties of candle flames? Ford’s eyes widened—it all made sense! Obviously, candle companies were involved in some conspiracy with the chemists of the shadow government, incorporating questionable compounds into their merchandise in order to sell more! He’d have to run some tests to confirm his theory, and he’d be needing a lot more candles...

“—ord. Earth to Ford.” 

Ford snapped to attention, turning to his brother with a frown. “Use your hands, Stanley.” 

Stan shot him a deadpan expression and flipped him the bird. 

“I mean it!”

“Aw, c’mon,” Stan said, rolling his eyes. “I’m all better.” 

“We’re not taking any chances,” Ford said sternly. He gestured for Stan to sit across from him at the table. “I still can’t believe that your trachea didn’t re-rupture; you were incredibly lucky.” 

“Luck’s got nothin’ to do with it. Me and my left hook had it all under control.” 

“Stan.  _ Hands. _ ”

With a long-suffering sigh, Stan began signing. 

_ You worry too much. Dumbass.  _

“Excellent!” Ford grinned, seemingly not minding the insult. “See, I told you you’d pick it up quickly!” 

_ Not as quick as you.  _

Ford waved him off. “We’ve talked about the self-deprecation, it’s entirely unnecessary. So, what was it you wanted to tell me?” 

Stan’s brow furrowed in concentration as he tried to form the correct words. His gestures were shaky and a bit wider than necessary, but Ford still got the gist.

_ Do you have plans for the holidays? _

The topic was unavoidable, really, but Ford had still hoped it wouldn’t come up. He cleared his throat and clasped his hands together, not meeting Stan’s eyes. “Erm, no, none that I can think of. Why do you ask?” 

Stan hesitated. After a long moment, he spread his fingers and brought his thumb to his chin. 

_ Mom and Dad.  _

There it was. Ford sighed and stood from the table, picking up one of his many notebooks from the counter and flipping through it to busy himself. “In the past, they have...expressed their wishes that I would visit them,” he finally said. “For winter break. And Hanukkah. But...I believe they’ve accepted me as a lost cause by now.” 

Stan’s eyes widened. He started to sign something, then threw his hands in the air frustratedly. “Ya know what? Screw it. What’s  _ wrong  _ with you?”

“Stan—” Ford started, but Stan cut him off. 

“No,  _ no,  _ you listen. How can you just...blow them off like that? They  _ want _ you to be there, and you can’t even suck it up enough to visit for one week outta the whole year?”

“I don’t see what the issue is,” Ford snapped, slamming his notebook back down on the counter. “You’re not practicing, either.” 

“Practi—Ford! I’m not talkin’ about  _ Hanukkah! _ ”

“Then enlighten me, Stanley! Why do you care how I spend the holidays? Why does it bother you so much?” 

“Because you’ve got a family that actually  _ gives _ a crap about you, and you—you’re just ignorin’ them!” 

“They ignored  _ you  _ for the last four years!” 

Stan’s jaw clenched and his fists tightened, and Ford braced himself for more yelling. 

But Stan just muttered, barely loud enough for Ford to hear, “They weren’t the only ones.” 

Ford’s heart dropped. 

In the next moment, a spark of anger ignited in its place, and he gladly fanned the flames. He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes, then roughly shoved past Stanley. 

“Whoah—hey! Where are you goin’?” 

“On a walk,” Ford spat, shrugging on his coat.  _ Away from you  _ hung unspoken in the air between them. 

“Ford, it’s like, negative ten out there,” Stan said.

If Ford noticed the slight waver in his brother’s voice, he certainly didn’t show it. The apartment walls shook as the door slammed shut behind him. 

* * *

Fiddleford was washing dishes when the phone rang. 

“Ma, phone’s ringin’,” he called, scrubbing some particularly sticky sweet potato casserole from a pan. When no one responded, he remembered that she and Pa were off helping Bernadette give birth. Fiddleford shuddered. College was a welcome escape from the responsibilities of a hog farm. 

The phone rang again, startling him from his thoughts. He considered letting the machine pick it up—it was probably just Mrs. Johnson calling to spill the latest church gossip—but ultimately decided to answer it himself. 

“Hello, McGucket residence,” he said. “What can I do for ya?” 

“Fidds, you gotta help me out!” 

Fiddleford frowned at the phone. “Stanley, is that you?” 

“It’s an emergency! Ford an’ I got in a fight, and he stormed off and I don’t know what to do!” 

Fiddleford sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. “I haven’t even been gone a week yet,” he said, more to himself than to Stan. “Not even one full week.” 

“You’re good at fixin’ stuff! Tell me what to do!” 

“Good at—goshdarnit, Stan, I fix  _ machines,  _ not people!” 

Stan was breathing heavily on the other end. He sounded on the verge of hysterics. 

“I just got him back,” he said quietly, desperately. “I can’t lose him again.” 

“Alright, alright, just—just calm down,” Fiddleford said. “Ya said he went on a walk? That means he’ll be back ‘ventually. Then all ya need to do is sit down an’ talk through yer feelin’s.” 

Stan was silent. Fiddleford began to wonder if he’d hung up. 

“That’s a terrible idea,” Stan finally said. 

Fiddleford huffed. “Hey, ya asked me what you should do, and I told ya. Just ‘cause you Pines boys are emotionally constipated—”

“Hey!” 

“—doesn’t mean it won’t work. An’ as much as I love you both, I’m tryin’ to spend a nice Christmas with my folks, so I’d appreciate it if ya held off on callin’ unless it’s an  _ actual  _ emergency.”

“...Gee, Fidds, I’m awfully flattered, but you know I don’t swing that way—” 

Fiddleford rolled his eyes and hung up. 

Then, a minute later, he thought better of it and called Stan back. 

“Uh...yeah?” 

“TALK TO HIM,” Fiddleford said, then hung up again. 

Shaking his head, he went back to washing dishes.

He should have volunteered to be Bernadette’s midwife. 

* * *

Ford muttered angrily to himself as he stalked down the sidewalk, attracting a few curious and concerned glances. Fortunately, there weren’t many people out in this weather. (Unfortunately, it was freezing, and his pride wouldn’t allow him to return to the apartment so soon after his outburst.) 

The rational side of him supposed that Stan had a right to be upset. He wasn’t  _ wrong _ in saying that Ford had turned his back on him, along with the rest of their family. Because Ford had. 

But the emotional side of him, the side he tried so hard to keep buried (and that seemed in constant danger of resurfacing while in Stan’s presence), said that Stan was being shortsighted and selfish. Because couldn’t he  _ see _ that Ford was trying to make things better? Did he  _ really _ expect Ford to ditch him in favor of their parents, after everything they’d been through? And why didn’t he  _ understand  _ that Ford didn’t like to celebrate the holidays, why had he continued  _ pushing  _ it and…

...and that wasn’t really fair, was it? Because he certainly hadn’t  _ told  _ Stan about any of that. About how Hanukkah was just the reminder of an empty seat, of games and traditions that had once been shared but were now nothing more than hollow facsimiles. About how he couldn’t even stand to step foot in that house, surrounded by memories and the distant laughing of two young boys. About how he was sure that their parents were disappointed in him, even if they never said it outright, because he was in his fourth year of college and he wasn’t a millionaire yet. 

No, Stan would have no way of knowing any of that. 

Ford sat on a bench and sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. The frigid weather had done a wonderful job of cooling off his anger. Now, he just felt...tired. Hurt. Guilty. 

He stood abruptly, wrapping his coat tighter around himself as he headed towards Main Street. He couldn’t head home just yet; he had an errand to run.

* * *

The door creaked open. Stan stiffened, but didn’t turn around.

Ford entered quietly, save for a faint rustling as he set a bag on the table.

Neither of them said anything.

Stan coughed awkwardly, trying to decide if he should go with his gut or plan out what to say. 

Ford shuffled his feet and scratched the back of his neck.

Finally, Ford broke the silence.

“What’s all this?” 

“I, uh, thought you might be hungry,” Stan said, still not looking up from the stove. He added another latke to the stack. “Sorry, they’re not as good as Ma’s. Probably have some of my hair in ‘em.” 

“No, no, it’s—it’s fine.” Ford cleared his throat. “You, uh, didn’t have to do that.” 

“Yeah, well...I know it’s not the same as when we were kids. But I figured we could kinda...do our own thing. Here. If that’s okay with you.” 

Stan wasn’t sure what he’d expected Ford’s reaction to be. However, he was certain that laughing was definitely not it.

He frowned. 

“You’re right, it was a dumb idea,” he mumbled. “Just forget—”

“No, Stanley!” Ford interrupted, still chuckling. “It’s...well, it’s funny. I...I had the same idea.” He pulled multiple scented candles from the bag. 

Stan stared. 

“I know it’s no menorah,” Ford continued, “but we could still light a new one each night. Plus, it will give me the chance to test my theory that candle manufacturers are conspiring with the shadow government to—” 

“Alright, brainiac, shut up and eat your dinner,” Stan said, sliding a plate and fork onto the table in front of Ford while discreetly wiping salt from his eye. “You, uh, you don’t still eat ‘em with ketchup, do you?” 

Ford groaned. “Not this again.” 

“It’s against the laws of nature! They’re  _ pancakes,  _ Ford! Ya don’t put ketchup on pancakes!” 

“For the last time, they’re potato-based and they’re fried! If anything, powdered sugar and syrup are the  _ real _ aberrations!” 

“I don’t know what that word means, but I’m takin’ offense anyway! YARGH!” 

“AGH—Stan, Stanley, stop! You’re wasting precious food! At least let me...ah HA!” 

“Boo, you cheated!”

“And you throw like a girl!” 

“I’ll have you know that I’ve sold faulty merchandise to plenty of women, and all of ‘em were good shots!” 

“With what?” 

“Rotten tomatoes, mostly.” 

Ford burst out laughing, dropping the latke he’d been about to throw. He gripped his sides and gasped for air. It wasn’t even that it was  _ funny,  _ necessarily, it was just so... _ Stan.  _

The effect was contagious. Pretty soon Stan was laughing as well, pantomiming some of his exploits in the process. This only made Ford laugh harder, and the cycle continued. 

Finally, with both of them wheezing and wiping their eyes, Stan formed a fist and rotated it clockwise on his chest. 

_ I’m sorry.  _

Ford smiled softly before signing back,  _ Me too.  _

It wasn't perfect, but it would do for now.   



End file.
